Preacher Man
by leboisduloup
Summary: After a looong absence, i return! || We're judged not by who we are, but by what came before us. The outlaw and the wolf cub set off to find their peace, one through vengeance, the other through saving the world. but what prices do we pay? SPOILERS!!
1. Part I

Part I

I wonder, sometimes, what people see when they look at me.  In the daylight, by the suns' brightness, I am an enigma- a priest with an arsenal of mercy at his back, gritty servant of god with a crumpled cig between smirking lips.  But there are hours when my masks, like those of all men, are dropped.  When I am without preconception or deception, unguarded, when I stand for the world to see.  It's a pity, in truth, that none have come to know me as I am now- tired and alone, yes, but utterly myself.

What would they think, seeing me as I am now?  A man, no more, the guises of daylight banished, the vestments of holiness shed?  A man, shirtless, in the dark; between my teeth the ever present cigarette.  As subject to anything as anyone.

Subject to feelings, judgments, grudges, visceral and base impulses.  Lusts and desires. If they saw what I see before me- but, no.  Such things are too private, and therefore too holy to share.  And I am, no matter what, a man of God.

Desires and lusts?  Perhaps _needs_ would be a better term.  She needed someone.  So did I, for that matter, though I am loath to admit it.  Both of us have seen too much of death and destruction; and suddenly... Though she's hardly my type- God, I'm not really supposed to _have_ a type, am I?- yet for all her simplicity she's a good woman.  She smiles in her sleep.  A rare thing these days, but when _her _guards are down, she's peace and contentment beneath.  For a time, we shared her tranquility and my thoughts were given rest; now, I'm left with them once more.  

I haven't broken any vows, though it almost feels like it.  Though the Lord (and therefore His agents) look down on such things, there isn't a formal oath to take.  Once there was, but on a world like this, the population needs every chance for survival and continuity it can get.  We can't afford to let children go unborn out of religious zeal.  Still, though, there is a stigma to a priest's life.  Perhaps it was, in truth, a sinful thing to do, though it doesn't feel it to me.  I haven't been a promiscuous man, so perhaps, just this once, He'll let it slide.  It wasn't the first time, but the first in a long time, so I feel as if the virtue of time has wished away any sins of the past.  There was nothing base in this.  For, though I cannot truly know it, my heart tells me this is the last time.

I am a man of God.  I say it often, perhaps a reminder to myself and others.  No matter what it seems, no matter why I am what I am.  No matter my motivations.  I have devoted myself, and though I've doubted, I do believe that the Lord shows me the way.  I know what I do, though it may seem wrong, is in the end the only path, the right one to follow.  Or, at least, I have known this in the past, though my heart aches.  That, too, is hidden away behind a mask- strength, courage, indifference, holiness.  But the things I have done have all been done for the right reasons, or so my intuition tells me.  But they cannot be undone, so it is worthless to argue the point.  Lord, give me strength; I go to my grave too soon, and I have so much to do...

If I told the others what I know- that soon, too soon, I will go to ashes and dust- they'd laugh it off, say I was being morbid, or superstitious.  Paranoid.  Anything.  But I know- as clearly as though I'd been given a vision, though He did not see fit to bless me so.  I know.

And what of the so-called humanoid typhoon?  He is the most... well, I guess the only word is good.  Righteous.  Moral.  For a famous outlaw, he's a better man than I, or any of my fellow priests.  But he pays the price- I am one of the few that has seen beneath the physical manifestations of _his_ masks.  Where my wounds are on my heart, his are all too real- twisted and scarred flesh lie beneath his coat.  Wire and sutures nearly hold him together- Heaven above, what of the carefully crafted metal that serves as his sinister limb!  All injuries from his vow- rather than kill, he's slowly being killed

I can't help but think I've been good, in that respect.  Though he hates me for it, he has needed someone to save him from the world.  And, though I've done things both of us have despised, I've managed it a few times over.  Call me mad- plenty have- but mankind needs a savior.  I'd honestly been expecting someone a little more peaceful and divine, but... well, we all make do with what we've been granted.  Vash can do what needs to be done- assuming he doesn't get himself killed, first.  

Oh, take care of yourself.

If anyone could understand me, understand how I feel when I'm alone and unheard, I think it might be he.  As secretive as I am- nay, more, for he is no mere man, as I am.  Vash the Stampede is... more.  Beyond us.  Different.  I only hope it will be enough.  But he doesn't need my concerns, doesn't need to see more than what he has.  For no matter who I am, what I've done, he must- _must_ know I am truly a friend.  And far too soon, I'll be of no more use to him than the night wind.

Oh, God.  Oh, Vash.  Take care of the girls.  Meryl, who loves you more than either of you realize.  And Millie, sweet, simple girl, whose need matched my own.  And if she conceives of this night, make this world a place our child can live in.  

Amen.


	2. Part II

Part II

                I don't miss my father.

                Nor can I say I really love him.  The best I can manage is to honor his memory, and respect the ideals that my family (if you wish to call it that) has passed down to me.  Mother speaks of him rarely...  I know, in truth, she didn't know him all that well, though it was no fault of her own, and none of his.  Uncle Vash, really, has told me more about my father than anyone else.  Even so, though I do respect his life, I never knew what it was to have a father, to love him, as a son should.  So I don't miss the feeling. 

                My biggest male influence, then, was my uncle.  Of course, I have been left rather in the dark for much of my life; he was never able to be here all the time, as a father would be, having to take care of his brother.  Knives.  Not my uncle, as Vash is (in name and in heart, if not blood.)  Vash's responsibility, his mad brother.  A dangerous man, as his name implies.

I know, at the same time, too much and too little about him.  I know what he has been responsible for, and I know what he is capable of.  Now, only Vash keeps him in check.  Mother once explained that he was trying to save his brother.  Most call it an impossible dream; to the few that are unwise enough to say so to his face, Vash just gives a little smile and shrug.  God knows he's ever cheerful, though I don't understand it.  I've never seen him truly upset about anything, or angry, though once when I asked Mother about it she shook her head and told me I should be happy about that.  But the fact is, he always acts a bit foolishly, as though he weren't necessarily the brightest bullet in the gun.  I know he's the most intelligent person I've met, but... he doesn't act it.  I suppose if he did, he wouldn't be nearly as pleasant.  Who knows why he possesses this simple cheer?  It could be his way of whistling in the dark, or his way of hiding things... but it seems so authentic.  Unlike Knives, who has (the few times I've met him) seemed rather pessimistic and dark.  The two brothers are a contrast, a balance- I think my uncle wants to tip that balance in the direction of love and peace.  May he succeed.  Anyone who can be cheerful as he is, when he's got so much reason to hurt, certainly has a chance.


	3. Part III

Part III

                "Adam," she calls, and as I can't think of an excuse, I come.  Which means that, for the third time today, I have to leave off my drawing.  It doesn't make such a difference, in the end- though I will admit I have a modest amount of talent, I don't get much out of it but relaxation.  Still, it's always preferable to parental interference, I guess.

                "Mom."  I nod, to augment the short greeting, snag an apple out of the bowl on the counter.  She's busy at the stove, so I take a seat at the table.  "What's up?"  I wonder if it sounds as lame to her as it does to me.  I'm preoccupied.

                "Nothing much, Adam.  Just wondering what you were up to."  She looks out the window as she speaks, and for a moment, as the sunlight bathes her face, it glitters as though she wept.  Startled, I open my mouth as though to say something... but, generally, when I do, it ends up being the wrong thing.  Instead, I busy myself with a bit of practical mathematics.  Let's see, it's not my birthday, nor hers... I count months.  Oh, God.  It must be the day- or getting near to it-

                "How are you?"  Quietly, I ask it.  She turns around once, the tears all but gone.  She's a strong woman, but when she does let things get to her... I wonder if I should have just let it go.  I'm hardly qualified to act as a therapist.  And my father was the priest.

                She merely smiles, albeit sadly.  "I'm fine."  And turns back to the stove, cutting off further conversation.  "I was thinking... Maybe we should go visit your aunt and uncle today."  We often spent this day with them, although (as now) Mother never put it into those terms.  I guess it's a fitting tribute- she, Vash and Meryl knew him best.

                Again, left speechless, I simply nod and get up.  It's a good ways to Vash's home, and of course I'll have to drive.  Unless she wanted to bother with a Thomas; I'd just as soon not.  It's hot out there, especially with the suns as high in the sky as they are now.

                My uncle seems to shun the cities.  He prefers his little farm, with its carefully nurtured, rare vegetation.  I don't know why- though sometimes, I've wondered if it's not to keep Knives out of trouble.  Of all the people I know, Vash is the hardest to read.  Most of the time, I don't even try.

                Outside, it's even hotter than I expected.  Mother makes sure we haven't forgotten the canteens, while I get the car started up.  It's an old piece of junk, really, but it runs.  Mostly.  Waiting in the sparse shade, I look out over the desert.  Mesmerizing, sometimes, the way the wind blows, throwing swirls and dances of dust over the endless sea of sands.  Beautifully deadly.  A sound startles me from my reverie; she's ready to go.  I look up, and know I was right on the significance of the day.  She's wearing the cross outside her clothing today.  Getting in, she casts me a smile; I realize for the first time that my mother is getting older.  A fine tracing of wrinkles is netted over her face.  I don't remember that happening... it's nothing, really; I know she's got plenty of time left... but still, it's disconcerting.

                "Let's get going.  It's quite a drive."  And she turns away, while I begin to drive.

                As I've said, Vash lives out in the midst of the desert.  He seems happy enough there, and Meryl... well, Meryl seems content enough, I suppose.  She strikes me as the sort of person that could be content anywhere, but wouldn't choose one place over another.  A follower, not a leader.  My own mother can, at times, be the same way; I think it's only for my sake that we live closer to so-called civilization.  I've always had a sneaking suspicion she'd be happier out here.  And the others would probably be glad to have her there.  Perhaps one day... but I waste my mind on dreams of the future.

                "Hello!" cries Vash as we pull up to the house; Mother practically does a flying leap out of the car to embrace him.  With a grin, I wait for her to finish- which she does, when Meryl comes out of the building and gets promptly tackled.  With my uncle, Mother has a match in size; Meryl, however, is considerably shorter.  While the girls go inside, I go to greet Vash.  

                "Adam."  He's still smiling, although he's got a familiar look in his eyes.  The one that says Good God, you look like your father.  He hasn't vocalized it in a long time, but I know that's what he's thinking.  I've made a conscious effort to minimize it- I've made an effort to wear more colors, and though the bones of my face betray me, my hair is a slightly browner black, and a different style.  Still, one is what one is.  

                "Uncle Vash."  We shake hands, and he pulls me into a hug.  I'm not the contact type, but it feels good to be among family.  Even if they aren't, really.  "It's been a while."

                "Half a year, at the least."  Has it really been that long?  It must have been.  How time does fly.  Perhaps if we lived a bit closer, but...  "How are you?"

                "Fine; I'm fine."  I always am.  "It's been a slow half-a-year."  He nods in assent, and we head inside, blinking at the change in light.  The girls are already inside, busying themselves doing nothing.  Vash and I sit down, knowing better than to interfere, when a clear voice rings out, making me cringe.

                "Ah, is it time for the annual funeral already?  My, my.  The joys of having our happy little home invaded- that is, visited."  God, I want to turn around and beat the smile off that face.  Only self-control keeps me from looking; I know Mother and Meryl must be doing the same.  Vash does look, and I get a brief glimpse of his face.  That, alone, is nearly enough to make me start; while he's not furious, the look of happiness has been banished, and he's serious for the first time in ages.  It's not something I ever expect from him, though he has good reason now.

                "If you're going to come down, Knives, the least you could do is manage some civility."

                "Civility?  Brother mine, your little pet Meryl is bad enough; why should I be civil when you pollute my home?"  He's baiting my uncle again.  Usually, Knives doesn't come down when we're here.  I wonder what makes him smug enough to do so today.

                "Go back upstairs."  Vash stands up and starts towards the staircase.  "None of us are in the mood to listen today."

"As you will.  You do so love to ruin my fun."  Finished with sadism for the moment, I hear him walking back up.  Exhale, though I don't remember holding my breath in.  I look over; Mother and Meryl are both standing very straight, although their shoulders have slumped back a bit.  As hard as it is for me to listen to that, it's infinitely more difficult for them, knowing everything he's done.  Vash gets up and goes to them, speaking too low for me to hear.  Shaking slightly, trying to regain control, I remain seated.  This is hardly the best way to spend a day that's melancholy at best.

As usual, Vash convinces us to stay the night; I hear him outside, though, knowing sleep evades him.  For that matter, it's as elusive to me.  Not always a trouble of mine, but there are times... Well, misery loves company; standing, pulling on a shirt, I follow the sounds of breath into the garden.  My money's on the flowerbed tonight.

As I'd expected, he's standing in front of the flowers.  Bright red, they're startling.  I know they've some significance for him, but I've never asked.  He, however, has not bothered to dress at all; bathed in moonlight, his body is a framework of pale scars and the dark glint of metal.  "You either, hmm?"

Didn't realize he'd seen me.  Not that it's really a surprise.  "Not tonight."  Maybe it was just the day; maybe it was the events.  I didn't know.  Vash doesn't bother to look over.  He's gazing at the crater in the moon.  I don't know why today brings up those memories, but he's a secretive man.  For a few moments, we stand in silence.  Then I move over a bit, looking over the sands.  The desert in the day is beautiful and deadly.  At night it is more serene, though still dangerous.  Now, I itch to feel the sands around me; there's something soothing about that kind of solitude.  "Care to take a walk?"

Vash looks behind us now, at the house.  "Sure."  We set off in silence, though it's companionable.  I don't usually feel awkward when I'm alone with my uncle, even if we do not speak.  And now, I am preoccupied with the world around me.  The night dies the sand cooler colors- greens and blues, tinged with silver- and the air is cool.  The soft caress of sand beneath me is comforting.  I think I'd rather walk than anything else.  My uncle says nothing, but I find it hard to imagine that he can remain untouched by this ephemeral beauty.  The desert is our greatest foe; for me, it's one of the few comforts that remain to me.  I want to lie down and let it swallow me, becoming nothing but a scatter of bone-white particles in the moon-glow sands.

The desert is eternal; I have been dying since the day I was born.  

My uncle follows the sands.


	4. Part IV

Part IV

The scream rings out later, when we're all but swallowed b the desert beast.  At first, I think it's an illusion of distance, or the cry of some desolate night bird, but Vash stops, stiff in his tracks, immediately.  When it's followed with a second plea, I turn around to face him- but my uncle is gone, racing across the sands.  Already, he is far ahead of me, a shadow on the sands, moving too fast.  No one should be able to run like that.  But I understand, and perhaps a measure of his speed is reflected in me- or perhaps I am so frightened, it only seems like I'm running on the wind.  Moments or eons later, my feet burning from the whip of sands so recently gentle, I come to the house; the door off its hinges, a window broken, a few solitary lights burning upstairs.  Picking up speed again, I run upstairs.

God- so much _blood..._

_MOTHER!_

The cry of my heart is echoed aloud; my uncle turns around from where he is knelt, Meryl's fingers entwined within his own.  He didn't hear me until I shouted.  I'm not sure he hears me now.  I don't.  All I know, consuming, is that my mother-

God.  What has happened?  I fall to my knees, much as Vash has; still looking at me, our eyes meet, equally blurred.  He cradles Meryl; I my mother.  

Why?

Mother.  Why?  Of all the people in the world, why you?  I'd rather give my own life than see you dead- not like this, a twisted parody of eternal rest.  To die in pain- God!  I wouldn't wish that on anyone, no matter what my temper- why does it happen to you?

Vash is shaking, or perhaps it's only my own vision that trembles.  Bent over her, he's nothing like the man I've known my whole life.  Broken.  Like me.  And probably thinking the very same thoughts.

"Adam."  His voice manages to emerge, half strangled, from the figure before me.  It's far too calm, and that more than anything is what makes me look up.  Standing before me, Vash is looking out the window.  And suddenly I understand what happened here.

"It's time for us to go."

He made me leave first, after I'd said my goodbyes- I don't know whether he wanted the privacy, or meant to put them as much at rest as he could.  It didn't matter to me.  With nothing to do, I found my skin itching- sand, blood, and grief tangled over it, and the scent of death, in my nostrils, covered all.  I felt the need to scrub my flesh clean.  So, while Vash remained, I went to do just that.  

Hot water is a marvelous thing when you're cold inside, but it didn't quite melt the core of the ice.  I wasn't sure I wanted it to.  Numbness can be a good thing.  The water was tinged pink.  I scoured my skin until it nearly matched the hue that drifted serenely around me.  And then, crying out, I drained the blood-soaked stuff and poured a new bath, heedless of the waste of water.  The more I rubbed, the better I felt, and yet...

Vash found me on the bed.  I'd had nowhere else to go.  Wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall, dripping.  My skin was still flushed and warm.  He didn't say anything for a while; neither did I, for words deserted my tongue.  Finally, the silence grew too heavy, and I turned to him, though the movement was resisted by the weight of grief.  He was standing straight, and on his face was an unfamiliar expression- pure blankness.  It looked practiced, natural.  I wondered if I could match it; it must be nice to have a wall to hide the pain behind.

He was wearing the red coat.  I'd seen it once before, wandering around exploring the attic as a child.  And of course I knew it was what he'd worn for his long years as an outlaw.  But to see it on him was something different, over the bodysuit of jet black.  He looked every bit the reckless killer to me.  My laughing uncle was utterly banished from his demeanor; in his place stood Vash the Stampede, destroyer of cities, a man worth sixty billion double dollars.

The shock was almost enough to make me forget, for a moment, why he'd done it.  As I sat staring, he ran a hand back through his hair.  He'd brushed it up, so it stood above him, glinting dully in the soft, predawn light.  For a moment, I thought I had something to say; then the vision of my mother slipped across my eyes again, and I looked back at the wall, falling into myself.

"Wolfwood."

He called.  I ignored.

"Wolfwood.  Adam."

A spark of recognition- yes, that was me.  It had been.  Now I was void.

"Adam.  Get up."

Why wouldn't he leave me alone?  I was grieving.  I was grief.  I didn't want to confront anything as alive as that.  

"Adam.  Come on.  We have to go."

The coolness in his voice had hardened to ice; it was a command.  Numb, I obeyed, dragging on some clothing- yesterday's shirt, because it was the only one I had that wasn't covered in blood.  Still numb, I stared at Vash.  He waited for me to put on my shoes, and then turned.  Although every fiber of my muscles screamed at me to sit down and fall away again, I knew I had to follow him.  Down the hall, up the staircase into the storage space above.  He ignored the first door- the one that led to Knives' room- knowing full well his brother would already be gone.  I wasn't so sure, so I opened it up to look.

_Tough break, kid._  The words were scrawled on the far wall.  I slammed the door, tremors renewed.

"You shouldn't have done that."  Vash was standing ahead, looking away from me.  I didn't bother to answer- it was the truth, and words still deserted me.  

Vash waited a moment more, and a hand went to his throat.  Briefly it cradled something, before the taut black-covered fingers clutched and pulled away; the faintest glimmer of silver trailed after them, the chain falling to hang limp and lifeless from his fingers.  A key.  Without looking at me, he fitted it to the door.  Though I'd never known him to open it before, the hinges responded without a creak, and the room itself- as much as I could see past my uncle's shoulders- was clean.  He moved forward, a bit of a glow within the shadows for a moment.  I half-followed, but as I arrived behind him, Vash emerged, a black strap slung across one shoulder.

From it hung the Cross.  It couldn't be anything else.  

"If he'd known it would come to this...  Well, God knows I've always hoped you'd never have to take it up."  Vash sighed, letting the bottom of the cross hit the ground.  It was heavy-sounding, somehow final.  He took a step to the side and gave it a gentle sway- nearly falling onto me, I caught it with one shoulder, grunting at the impact.  He waited; I tried to find a comfortable (or at least manageable) way to carry the thing- my arms aren't strong enough yet to drag it by the strap.  Finally, balancing it precariously over one shoulder, I turned to find Vash walking down the hallway already, sidestepping to put more distance between he and his brother's room.  I followed again- there was nothing more to do.

Outside, Vash stood watching the first sun rise.  As it climbed, its fellow peeking over the horizon's edge, he put on a pair of sunglasses.  The light flashed on golden lenses, almost as though my uncle's eyes had gone luminous.  Squinting, I dug in my jacket's pockets for my own pair, trying not to overbalance.  By the time I had them on, he'd moved, like a mirage, to stand beside the car.  I walked around it, considering angles for a moment, and managed to fit the cross into the backseat.  Vash was sitting by then, a silent passenger.  I could nearly feel the strength of his will; my uncle was once more a man on a quest, and for a moment, I realized that this could be it.  Vash would sacrifice everything, this time, because he had nothing left to guard.

Which meant I'd have to guard myself... 


	5. Part V

Part V

                The man across the table from us wasn't the type I'd normally consider worth the conversation.  But we'd been doing this for a while, and I knew that so far, Vash had been a better judge of character than I had.  Besides, the suns were at their zenith, so if we could spend a few hours inside, it would do us both good.  The drought's been better for the past few years, but it's still desert.  

                "Oh, aye, there's talk.  But there's always talk."  

Vash signaled a waitress with two fingers; she brought another pitcher.  With a friendly smile (it's amazing what alcohol can do) the man filled his own glass; perhaps he would have done the same for ours, had they not already been filled.  But I do so love to give people the benefit of the doubt.

"Ah, thanks mate.  As I was saying..." he leaned back in the chair and cast a glance at me.  For some reason, a lot of these guys find me unsettling.  I suppose these days it's rare to find a young man that looks like he'd shoot you without a second thought.  It wasn't the truth, but I was beginning to pick up Vash's talent with expressions.  I merely nodded as he continued his story, without letting the bitter amusement show.  

"As I was sayin'.  There's talk of people acting strange- a man shoots his neighbors for no good reason, a quiet person goes all out on a neighborhood... it varies.  Sometimes it's just a few people involved; now and then, you hear tell of a whole town, a small city, out for blood."  He interrupted the story again with a refill.  I managed not to grow impatient.  

"Anyway, there're only a few things any of these places have in common.  One;" he said, placing a thick finger for emphasis upon the tabletop, "They're in a straight line if you map 'em.  Two," he continued, stabbing a different coordinate on the wood, "There's never a motive for anything.  And, three-" third and final, this point demanded a slam upon the furniture that had half the saloon turned for a moment- "There're some calling card the killer- or whatever it is- leaves."

"Calling cards?"  I know already what he's going to say.  Same thing we heard in the last town... the one before that... before that.  It's my turn to ask, anyway; Vash made the inquiry last time.

"Aye.  Trademarks.  Red flower petals, scrawls on the walls, sometimes in weird languages.  And a type of victim following the pattern, too, though not always- a girl, long hair, dark."  He regarded me coolly; I matched his stare.  And who says I haven't learned anything?  The man finally broke contact, went back to nursing his mug.  Vash stood, breaking the silence and stillness that enveloped our lone table.

"Thank you for the information."  He dumped some money on the table- more than enough to cover the drinks.  I followed him, as I'd been doing for quite some time.  Apparently, he'd finally been convinced that, no, this town had no more to offer us.  

Later, in the car, he took off his sunglasses and massaged his temples.  After a few months, I'd grown able to read him a bit better.  When he took off the shades, he took off the top layer of his mask.  At first, he'd been nearly silent, not bothering with conversation.  I suppose it was his numbness, lasting longer than mine; I'd been unsettled by his eerie determination.  

But, slowly, he'd begun to bend back, taking his own characteristics to heart.  He wasn't nearly as carefree as he'd been, but he was in much better shape now than he had been.  It had been a relief, at the very least, to know that he hadn't utterly snapped.  His grief was just too raw.  I don't blame him for it.  But I'd felt better when he'd begun to speak again.

"You know, Adam, you don't have to do this."  The longest sentence he'd said in months; I managed not to lose control of the car.  "You don't have to come after him.  I don't know why I brought you- you don't deserve this..."

"I may not deserve it, but I want it."  Needed it.  My own pain cried out, half-buried, for vengeance; or, at least, the peace to know Knives was at bay once more.  But I knew Vash would be able to guess that himself.

"We'd all hoped you'd never have to tread this path... never have to learn these things."  He glanced my way.  "When it happened- I don't know that I realized what I was doing.  You look so damn much like him...  It seemed natural.  But, Adam, I don't really want to get you killed, too."

"If I do, it's because that's my destiny."  Without a good reason, a slow smile spread across my lips.  "And I need to do this as much as you do."  For Mother.

Now, Vash wasn't bent on explanations, or even on dissuading me.  Here, in the car, he was letting himself crash.  I knew how tired I was; for him, it must be worse.  So I let him be as we drove, mindless forward movement.

"There's never anything more.  Calling cards, distance, random destruction.  When we trace his next move, he manages to out-step us, or leave a city unharmed."

"I know."

"It's like he's watching us; he may well be."  He lifted his head, looked over the sands.  "The fact is, I never thought he'd try this.  He's chafed at my control, but at least he didn't bother anyone.  Aside from commenting."

"It's hard to believe he's your brother."  I winced saying it; not a good comment to make, but it had come to mind.  I need to learn to think before I speak.  Vash, to his credit, didn't flinch.

"I know."  He spoke quietly and didn't look at me.  I knew it hurt him, even if he didn't show it.

"We'll find him."

"We'll have to."

We camped, that night, having decided to skip the next town.  It just wasn't worth it.  We ran parallel, for the most part, to Knives' path; it seemed better than actually following him, because we didn't see the places ourselves.  For the most part.  Now and then we'd go through one, in the hopes of seeing something the rest of the world didn't.  And I had a suspicion that, once we found his brother, Vash would try to help rebuild what had been destroyed.  It was his character.  

Vash sat away from the fire, looking at the stars; while I longed for the sort of solitude he drew about him like a shroud, I had things to attend to.  The Cross was always in need of my attention.  Though it was in fairly good repair, we hadn't yet had the opportunity to use it.  So we didn't really know if it would work.  We'd checked the mechanisms a few times already, but I didn't really trust it, having always believed a little extra care was worth the trouble.  So I tended it every night we camped (which wasn't all that frequently,) checking each moving part for wear, examining the buckles to make sure none were in danger of breaking.  It was an absorbing task- partially self-defense against Vash's silence, which I found a bit unsettling.  

The next morning, Vash offered to drive.  Vash never drove.  In fact, I wasn't sure he could.  Nonetheless, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the idea- after all, we were in the desert, so I doubted we'd find any accidental pedestrians- and, anyway, he was my uncle.  So I climbed into the passenger seat, feeling ever so slightly uncomfortable in the unaccustomed pose. 

We'd been heading along at a good pace for some isles towards the next town, when I saw why Vash had wanted to drive.  A sudden left turn, and we were headed towards an entirely different city- the next one on Knives' trajectory.

"We're attempting spontaneity," he said quietly.  I understood, though- each time we've tried to head him off, Knives has eluded us.   My uncle was going to see if we couldn't throw him off our track, so we could get onto his.  

The city looked like any other, which might or might not be a good sign; it could be because we'd beaten his brother there, or it could be because he'd managed to outwit us again.  I didn't know which.  Vash sent me in to get a room for us.  I look a bit less memorable.  When I'd gotten the key, we both went upstairs to wait... to see whether anything would happen.  

My uncle sprawled across a bed immediately upstairs, the smile that had become so rare creeping over his lips.  I couldn't help but answer as I followed suit; there was certainly something to be said for civilization, after all.

After a while, I managed to pull off my shoes and drag myself into the bed.  If we were going to be up all night chasing Vash's brother, it would be good to get some sleep while I could.  And, besides, I was tired.  Vash didn't follow suit, at least not while I watched.  Instead, he sat with his back against the wall, watching the suns set out the window.

It would be a long, long night, if we'd managed it at last.


	6. Part VI

Part VI

                The soft touch of fingertips on my shoulder was all I needed to wake me up.  It's amazing, what habits you can develop when your life depends on it.  The light that filtered through the curtains was cold, and somehow dingy, as though it were marred somehow.  The pale shadows cast at different angles across the floor moved slowly as he stepped back, waiting while I pulled on some clothing... casting a last glance at the Cross.  It hadn't been long, but already I felt vulnerable without it.  My father's store of mercy.  Guess he was a real fire and brimstone preacher.

Not for the first time, i found myself wondering about him.  I never used to, when I was younger.  Now, though, I feel like I'm walking in his footsteps, and it makes me uneasy.  I can't follow someone I never knew.

By moonslight I stood, reaching for the serpentine glint of dark metal on the bedside table.  I would be without the Cross, but neither Vash nor I was fool enough to go unarmed.  A store of the small guns would have to suffice, I supposed.  That, and a _lot of bullets._

Come and get us, Knives...

The hush descended over the streets was enough to tell us that something was off.  A town at night shouldn't be silent; there's always, in a healthy place, a certain amount of background noise.  Even if there was no one out, there should be the various cries of playing children, or the sounds of conversation behind the walls.  Lights were on, here and there, but they seemed as empty as a candle in a skull's eye socket.  It wasn't right.  I felt the thrill of excitement mingled with a touch of fear flutter in my throat; the rush of adrenaline tingling, a minor explosion in my brain.  If I wasn't ready, I never would be.

By previous arrangement, we split up, stalking through yawning streets.  Not a single drunken laugh or forgotten brawl; no illicit activities skulking out of the lamplight.  The feeling of wrongness surrounded it all.  My fingers curled around the comforting steel hanging at my belt.  I wondered if Vash ever felt like this... no, not my uncle.  The famous outlaw... 

right?

"Well...  If it isn't the wolf cub."  And the low laugh, the perversion of my uncle's cheerier tones.

We'd thought we'd found him at last.  We were wrong.  He had found us.

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Thank you to everyone who's reviewed the story; I hope everyone likes it a lot!  ^.^  Seeee, I can write serious 'fics, Otaku and Business Meeting notwithstanding.  Hah!  Mmmn... So, yes.  I felt like adding in a random rant here.  But now I find I dun have much to say, except thanks for the support and sorry for the shorrrt chapter!  Ja ne.  ^.^


	7. Part VII

I'm sorry for the long wait, I've been busy.  Trust me, the chapter's worth it.  ^^

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Part VII

                "Either that, or the dead walk again."  The voice behind me continued, the soliloquy raising the hairs along the back of my neck... the dead...  Did I really look so much like him?  Or was it merely the bastard, trying to get on my nerves.  Willing my heart not to pound (though I doubted it would help) I turned, slowly, one hand on the gun- no longer so comforting a thing.

                Somehow, I expected more of a specter; something more clearly evil.  As it was, only the faintest hint of maliciousness, painted into the smile adorning his lips (my uncle's face, so nearly...) betrayed his opinions; his eyes were hidden to me, by tricks of the shadows.  As though the darkness did his bidding.  I almost would have believed that.

                Still, it was a figure you could pass in a crowd without a second thought.  His features, wrought so similarly to Vash's, were bland, masked; his dress simple enough, and unremarkable.  Something glinted at his throat; a pendant of some sort, I thought, though I couldn't make it out.

                "Speak, boy."  His voice betrayed him, now.  The disgust was palpable, his arbitrary rage like an electric current in the air.  I thought I might strangle on the tension.  My fingers closed by their own will around the gun.  I found myself lifting it without thinking.  Coldly, I took aim, digits dancing on the trigger finger.  A wash of bloodlust consumed my mind...  _Murderer_...

                No matter what he looked like.  I'd sworn to myself that I'd kill the man.  My mother's face passed briefly through my mind.  With a whispered prayer, I forced myself to look straight ahead- I'd lose my aim if I gave into the urge to glance away- and began to pull the trigger.

                At that moment, a shadow brushed my shoulder.  I jumped, and it followed through, grabbing me by the arm, sending my aim into space.  The bullet sped off, an oblivious little angel of death, harmless.  I tried to turn to face him, the cry already beginning in my throat, but I'd been passed by.  It was though I didn't exist, again.

                I watched the two of them, stepping back into the shadow, breath coming raggedly.  The brothers stared each other down, anger crackling in the space between them.  I looked at both, but recognized neither.  This was not my uncle in any way I'd seen him; he wasn't joking, or sobbing on the inside.  He was strong, and filled with terrible duty and resignation.  The expression on his face could have been carved by the desert winds.  Ageless, angry, and decided.

                His brother was calmer than anything I'd ever seen before- his lips holding neither the contemptuous snarl nor the acidic smile I'd come to know, from what little I'd seen of him.  He stood there, staring at his sibling.  The gazes were evenly matched- neither moved, neither gained, and neither relented.

                Suddenly, Vash's hand was in the air, and Knives was clutching his own cheek, his face a mask of rage.  I hadn't seen either move.  The arm- his left, I noticed, as though he forbore to touch his brother with his own flesh.  It fell to his side, moving out of time.  His face hadn't changed.  My uncle was, when angry, as impassive as the sands.  But the desert could never be as deadly.

                "You're as bad as they ever were."  Even his voice was cold, toneless.  Involuntary I glanced at the scarred moon.  It shone with its brothers, marred forever by the wills of the two who stood before me.  I looked back to the scene, praying silently to whatever force might be listening, though I knew not what I asked.  

                Knives laughed, then; a sound devoid of compassion, and, I thought, of reason.  He straightened, his hands falling from his face to cross lazily over his chest.  His eyes seemed luminescent in the half-light, as he regarded my uncle.  "And you're better than they could ever hope to be, I assume?"  Another dark chuckle.  "What does it matter, then?  You and I are above their right and wrong."

                This time, watching, I saw him move; for a moment, I thought he was about to strike again.  Instead, the black glove closed around the glimmer around Knives' throat.  Now, for the first time, _his_ face became an incoherent mask of rage as he ripped the thing away.  Holding it in his hand, he regarded it for a moment.  Then he struck again, lashing out with clawed fingers.

                Obviously expecting such a move, Knives ducked the motion smoothly, and came up beneath my uncle's guard.  I saw the poisonous sparkle too late, and tried to take aim again, but my arm would not obey me in time.  While I watched, helpless, he slashed through the red fabric, taking a malicious pleasure in the sound of the tear.  Then, he brought the thing- a jagged piece of metal- back, driving it into flesh as hard as he could.  And, faster than a cobra's strike, he was past Vash.

                My uncle's mouth opened, but no sound came out; he gasped raggedly, and fell to the ground.  Glassy eyes rolled wildly, delirious, as he managed to roll over, hands clasped instinctively over the wound.  I could see the darker red, near black in the bad light, spread across the lighter, mingling to pool beneath the round circles of buttons.

                Knives turned around to survey his handiwork.  His grin, a ghastly mockery of that which once adorned my uncle's face, was feral.  He panted faintly with the effort of his sin, the touch of Vash's hand clear, now that he'd turned towards me; red, seeming to me like the Mark of Cain.

                "Pitiful, brother.  You even bleed like them."  He knelt down, looking critically (though not without considerable, sickening humor,) at the wound.  Feebly, Vash raised an arm, trying to lash out again.  Knives didn't even bother to duck.  Standing, he kicked my uncle in the ribs viciously.

                "I wonder if you'll die like they do."  His tone was even, casual.  He was completely mad.  No sooner had I thought it, and realized I still held the gun, did he turn to me.

                "And you, pup.  What to do with you?"  Amusement crept back into his tone.  "_Lord_ knows I had reason to keep your sire around..." though he looked at me, I knew the words were meant for Vash, although the mocking tone made me wince as well.  "Nonetheless...  I don't really want my dearest sibling to expire.  I suppose it's your duty to take care of him."  Again, I heard my uncle whimper at his words, though I didn't know why.  

                "I suppose we'll meet again," he added, nonchalant, turning to walk away.  I realized he held my gun in his hand.  Following my eye, he spun it around and dropped it into a pocket.  "Though of course, I don't intend to be so merciful next time around."  He turned back to the crumpled form against the wall.  "See you around, Vash!"

                And, as I rushed to my uncle's side, he walked away.  When I looked up, he was gone.

                I was alone, with the slowly dying outlaw.  Vash moaned and shifted, fingers clenching and unclenching.  He managed to open them, looking blankly down at what he held.

                It was a small bit of jewelry; I didn't recognize the design, but apparently he did.  It almost looked like a simplistic version of one of the old Ships Vash described, when he felt like telling old tales.  He stared at it for a moment, before black leather twitched over it again.  His lips opened and closed, while he worked to speak.  I did my best to gather him up, fumbling through the red-stained-red folds of cloth.

                "Rem..."  And he passed out of consciousness.  

                I began the long stumble, back to our hotel.


	8. Part VIII

I was half-asleep when he finally awoke; in a faint drowse, I only remember seeing him one moment with his eyes closed, the next wide open, facing the ceiling in silence. Although I'd been assured he'd pull through (though, the doctors said, his healing was amazing; I didn't see fit to make any explanation,) it was still a great relief to see him awake.

"Mornin', Uncle," I murmured, trying for deliberate casualness. It'd be better if he didn't wake up into gloom and misery- after what he'd been through, that was the last thing he'd need. "How ya feelin'?"

"Like I've been run over by a sand steamer," he replied with a groan, trying to pull himself upright. By the time I moved to help him, he'd already shifted halfway to a sitting position; the faint beads of sweat on his forehead told me he wouldn't be getting any further with or without assistance. Healing or no, that had to hurt.

Echoing my thoughts, Vash's hand went to his stomach, picking idly at the bandages there. They stood out, sterile against his much-abused body. The emergency staff had been aghast at what Vash looked like beneath his bodysuit. He may heal fast, but the scars are testament to his past. I managed to convince them an explanation would be a bad idea.

"No wonder." He'd gone quiet again. Glass-green eyes remained focused on the frayed edges of the fabric strips for a moment, and then he looked at me. Now he really _looked_ at me- not the way he'd glanced at me before. It was disconcerting- almost like he'd just noticed my presence (or was it that he'd only now realized who he spoke to?)

"How long have I been out?"

"Three and a half weeks, so far." I leaned back into my seat with a soft sigh. "Though as usual, you're lucky to be alive."

"Hardly luck." For a moment, my heart stopped; if Vash had lost his will to go on... "He never intended to kill me." He sounded wryly amused. His bitterness came as a surprise; one would think I'd've been used to my uncle's new demeanor, but in all honesty, he was still his old, happy self in my mind most of the time.

"How can you be so sure?" I retorted. "He damn well looked like he was trying to gut you."

Vash shook his head, and slid down a little in his bed. "He might say he wants me dead, but he always pulls the blow in the end. It's all for show."

"Somehow, that's not as comforting as it should be." I paused. "Though he did say as much, when he let me live."

Vash nodded, though I doubted he'd heard Knives speaking. "It might sound cold, but I'm surprised he did." His hand again played along the bandages. "I would've made it without you."

"Now whose words are all for show?" I asked him, a little bitter that my help should be so discounted. "I'm not the one whose guts were trailing, uncle. Give me a little credit, damnit."

He glanced up at me, genuinely surprised. The shock passed out of his eyes to be replaced by fondness. "I'm sorry, Adam. I guess I do try and seem like more than I am..." He trailed off, looking out the window. "I've had to, for a long time. Old habits die hard." The last words were spoken softly- I wondered exactly what he meant. And at the same time, I didn't want to know.

"So." His voice startled me out of my thoughts again. Sheets rustled as he tried to disentangle his legs, breathing raggedly with the effort. "Help me get up. We've got to go."

"You're crazy!" Get up? "You can hardly sit in bed by yourself, and you expect to get up and run around? Jesus, Vash- you don't need him, you're gonna get _yourself_ killed." He froze at my words, propped up by one arm, and stared at me. Had I said something so strange? It seemed damned obvious.

He sank back into the pillows, regarding me strangely. The same way he usually did when he thought about... my father.

Hell. Not _that_ again. I wish people would stop seeing him in me. I never saw the guy, myself.

"A few more days... I guess I do need the rest." He managed a grin, but I knew it was just the usual act. Covering up his anxiousness- for whose sake? Mine? I hoped not- it seemed like a betrayal, since I saw through it so easily.

"I guess we both do."


	9. Part IX

It's everyone's favorite absent writer!  I'm sorry for the long delay.  Writers block.  ::Cringe!::  But... mnn.  I miss my Adam.  And several people have been _asking for me/demanding me/threatening me if I don't get my lazy arse over to the computer _to write more of it.  ::snort.::  I feel so loved.  Grawr.  I swear one day I'll go somewhere with this thing.

Really.

...hold your breath.  

------------------------------------------

I squint into the sand-laden breeze, one hand raised to shield my eyes as best I can.  Still, the grit builds beneath the lid, in the corners of my eyes...  nothing like hot winds to blind you.

            The other hand I slide under the collar of my shirt, rubbing at my sore shoulder.  The cross had rubbed the skin raw, and bruised it to the bone... I could feel the flesh building, the muscles becoming harder, but it wasn't without its price.  Even when without it, now, I was off-balance.  But it was, oddly, a comfort to have.  

            The inside of the store was dark after the bright suns outside.  Forced again to narrow my gaze, I wait for the too-bright afterimages to fade.  When my view finally adjusts, I comb the shelves for the food Vash had asked for.  He'd stayed out in the car- the weeks have near healed his injury, but he knows better than to stretch himself.

            "Wolf cub."  The voice behind me is distinctly feminine, but it sounds strained, as though speaking from a distance.  I stiffen, and decide I really don't want to turn around.  And then I do anyway.

           It's just a girl.  A young teen, by my guess... but the look in her eyes is far away.  Even I can tell it's not her speaking.  She gives me a crazed, blank grin.  All I can do is stare.  She takes a step forward, and I take one back; her hand is extended, with a flower in it.  She offers it up, the blank look slowly falling away, replaced by something calculating and far too familiar.  Damnitall.  I can almost imagine the gaze, piercing as blue steel, overlaid on the soft, dark eyes.  _God _damn_ you!  I try to find words to condemn him- but they won't come.  And there's nothing to be done- he's nowhere near.  The extended hand- the very delicacy of his chosen tool a mockery of his power- flicks once, when I don't take the blood colored blossom.  _

           "Take it.  Call it a gift," he urges me mockingly through her lips.  I feel a snarl paint my own, though I'm still wordless.  My expression is apparently betrayal- the girl (a pretty little thing, now that I look at her- I wonder if maybe he's conscious of the irony.  Probably,) laughs cruelly.  She takes a few steps closer, reaching up to run the free hand across my cheek, pressing the already-wilting bloom into my hand.  "Anyone ever tell you," Knives whispers casually, "That you look just like your daddy?"  

            He twists her lips into a mockery of his own malicious grin, and her fingers clench, dragging nails through my skin.  For once, I manage to control myself- I don't cry out, although it _hurts.  I know better._

And, as I'd expected, his presence fades as quickly as it came.  The girl gasps and flinches, pulling away, leaving the flower threaded between my fingers.  For a disconcerting moment I follow her gaze to her sinister digits, the nails tinted with something I'd rather not look at too closely, as it's my own.  She manages to catch my eyes, and holds my gaze, her confusion contagious.  Her eyes- God, she's young, she doesn't know!- are too much to bear; she demands some explanation.  One I sure as _hell can't give.  So, after I regain control, I bolt- forsaking the supplies I'd been sent for and running for the car.  I must look like I've seen a ghost, because my uncle drags himself to a more upright position.  By then, though, the shock had worn off- the suns' heat dispelling the chills down my spine.  I'm conscious again of the ache in my muscles, the sting of beads of perspiration in new wounds.  A little too dazed to speak, I let the calling card do it for me.  And again, I see that rare flash of supreme virulence over Vash's expression.  It's nearly as disconcerting as Knives' trick was.  "He's here."_

"Not in person."  I turn in time to see the girl wandering out of the store, surrounded by a few friends.  She looks like she's crying.  I can't bring myself to be surprised... nor can I think of anything to make the situation anything but worse.  Following my glance, Vash seems to grasp the situation.  He pauses, contemplating... I try to catch my breath.  We do need provisions.  

"Did he say anything...?"  The voice breaks my train of thought, and I turn back to face those bottle-green eyes, blinking once to refocus my sight and my concentration.  The question is given due consideration... Well, yes, he'd spoken... But for once, I had a feeling these were words for _me_.  And as such... I was at a bit of a loss.    
            "Nothing we didn't already know."  Supplies can wait.  I slip into the driver's side, and glance in the rearview once.  Vash nods, as though he understands.  He probably does.

It makes me feel a little better to be in the desert again.  But something still feels hollow, dirtied by being so close to Knives and having nothing to do.  Wind and sand in the clawmarks down my cheek remind me, painfully, that I'm no closer to my vengeance.  

I can't forget the look in that poor girl's eyes when she woke... 

It's just another sick thing to repay the bastard for, when we find him.  


End file.
